


Gather Thy Cares

by Maygra



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, VC Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As always, The Highlander characters: Duncan, Methos and Cassandra, et al, are the property of Rysher: Panzer/Davis and we are<br/>ruthlessly exploiting their characters for no monetary gain and for our own (and now your) enjoyment but will return them unharmed and no worse for the wear. The other characters in the story also belong to someone else who shall go unamed but not unacknowledged*. Methos and Duncan both promise none of them will  be too terribly taken advantage of......</p><p>This material may not be copied or distributed without permission--we don't want R:P/D or anybody's vamps hunting me down--we have enough problems. Do not link this material without the disclaimers and warnings in tact, please do not publish or post this material to other archives without my permission.</p><p> </p><p>Originally posted in 1997</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gather Thy Cares

  
**Gather Thy Cares**  
 _(or A Gathering of Allies: a collaboration)_  
 _Maygra de Rhema (with the permission of Isilwath)_  
 _Copyright 1997_  
 

The summoning came in early March, Seacouver's spring just beginning to emerge. Duncan MacLeod woke to it, an odd feeling of displacement, an urge. It took him nearly a day to identify it, to know it was time. 

The Gathering had come. 

He had wondered--the past few years had brought challenges faster--enemies harder to defeat. The ones who were left were better, more ruthless--their Quickenings stronger, age and numbers of fallen challengers adding to their strength, as his defeated challengers added to his own. 

But the urge drove him; called him North and East, away from the major continents, towards the midnight sun, the darkening lands. He took challenges on the way. Three. All heading in the same direction--fighting to get to the space calling them all, from wherever they were. He tried to get in touch with his closest friends--too few these days--but there was no response. He had no idea who would be left. Time and distance had separated them. 

Except for Methos. His one constant in the century since Joe Dawson had died--since the mortal had been killed by one of their own. Methos had been there, had taken the head of Joe's killer to avenge MacLeod's loss and his own. Then he came to MacLeod to surrender his grief. Eldon Shaw had been a student of Methos' in the distant past--a promise turned bad, wanting the prize more than he wanted his humanity. 

Methos had robbed him of both, and then turned to MacLeod, and the Highlander to him as another joy was lost to the Game. They had stayed close--not always physically--continents separating them at times, months, and then one or the other would show up on a doorstep, at a hotel, and whatever time had passed was forgotten in a mutual release of friendship, of need and desire, of love. 

And sometimes Methos came to him for sanctuary. He was no longer a myth to their kind, and while his face had not been plastered on the Immortals' Most Wanted poster--there were those who would take any chance, any challenge on the off chance it might be Methos they faced--five thousand years of power too much of a temptation to resist. 

Methos had left him again barely a month before the summons came, and MacLeod missed him desperately, wanted him in a way which had never seemed so urgent before. He craved his presence, and not just for the physical pleasure and comfort of the long, lean body, but for the laughter which had not yet faded, for the smug superiority which continued to raise MacLeod's blood pressure until the older Immortal would relent, tease and cajole until they were in sync again. Methos surrendering everything he had to offer to the Highland warrior who had captured his heart and spirit. 

MacLeod had eventually surrendered as well. It had taken him longer, longer to accept the gift friendship was--for they were friends first--always. Lovers more often than not, but not monogamous--both realizing within the first year together they weren't meant to be everything to each other, just a vital constancy. 

When the summons came, MacLeod wondered if Methos had sensed it first, and, knowing it was nearing, distanced himself to prepare for those final battles before reaching the Killing Grounds. They were a threat to each other in some ways--the well being of the other easy for others to use as a threat. It had happened a half dozen times in the first few years, when they were obvious about their feelings, their affection--the physical attraction. Friends could be used as pawns. Lovers could be used as weapons. 

The last time had nearly separated them permanently: MacLeod held hostage to Methos' surrender--an execution, not a challenge, and fate had intervened from an unlikely source. 

The vampires had challenged the challenger. The strange alliance bothered MacLeod more than Methos, but the allies were there, wanted or not--MacLeod and Methos were owed a debt. Lestat said so, and his family followed his lead. They had not been obvious in their interventions--Lestat would have preferred to go Immortal hunting and clear the field, but Methos and Louis had convinced him otherwise. The game had to be played out--the field could be leveled but not cleared. 

Gratitude to the vampires came uneasily to MacLeod, especially to Lestat who had once threatened to take Methos from him for his own pleasures. The Vampire had been startled and intrigued when Duncan challenged him, resisted him. They had been civil since but the hostility existed, the vague threat. Lestat had not challenged MacLeod again, however. 

That had been nearly a decade ago, and MacLeod had not seen the vampires since, although there were times when he knew they were watching him. And Methos, no doubt, repaying their debt as they could. 

And now there was no way to find him. No way to know until the end if he lived. And if he did, perhaps no way to avoid facing him on the battleground. The fear threatened to overwhelm MacLeod at times, but the rule was harsh. There could be only one. 

His flight took him to Iceland. To the arctic circle, to where the summer had faded, and the days dwindling to almost nothing. It seemed somehow fitting, that the last battles should be fought in the darkness, as if they were not worthy of the sun's warmth in this darkest of times. The tracks he followed were numerous as Immortals made their way to the Killing Grounds--and he passed more than one headless body on the way, checking each grimly for a familiar face. And he was challenged, fought and won, until he came to the last place, and finally saw them--heard steel ringing in the gloomy twilight afternoon. 

Barely two dozen left, snow trampled to the permafrost, crimson and muddied: a ring of Immortals who took their challenges as they would. They waited, resting between Quickenings: solitary camps of single men and two women. One of them was Amanda, bloodied, battered and resolute. Her gamine face and figure had grown lean and hard, still breathtakingly beautiful but not as carefree--too many battles, too many deaths, and she was weary of it. He greeted her, kissed the soft mouth for comfort and luck and history. 

Others were still arriving, the challenges unrelenting and constant, sometime several in a row. It was a solemn thing, voices rarely raised above a murmur in speech, never falling below a scream as the Quickenings gathered strength. And one MacLeod recognized, rising to watch as he saw his former student triumph and win over an older, stronger challenger. 

There were no rules against contact, only an unspoken distance. A separation MacLeod ignored as he came to catch Richie, Amanda behind him to half carry the younger immortal to Amanda's camp--the one she and MacLeod had been sharing. They were an oddity, this trio-and became more of one as they refused to challenge one another, although the urgency to end the Gathering was building. 

Duncan and Amanda had met back to back challenges, Richie waiting to help them away--to watch when they all felt the arrival of another; the elongated signature catching the attention of the entire group. Duncan rose and saw the familiar face, the body--moved toward Methos and stopped as the ancient Immortal was challenged. 

Methos was already blooded, had met who knew how many challenges en route. He was weary and grim, and his first challenge was over so quickly, so skillfully, several who thought to call him changed their minds--but it took three more before they let him be. 

*He's worn out. They'll kill him yet.* 

Anxiety, concern from the five unseen spectators to the carnage as they sent thoughts among themselves. 

*What then? Can't we...* one sent, impatient and nervous. 

*Then he'll die. It's their Game. His choice... you agreed...* another admonished. 

*I don't want to watch this...* Compassionate despair. 

*Then don't... I will...* came the reply as the sending ceased. 

The last Quickening faded, leaving Methos on his knees, the survivors watching, waiting as the oldest of them got unsteadily to his feet once more. The gold-green eyes scanced the crude circle of watchers, gaze resting on each face until one moved closer, and the others stepped back, willing to let the next challenge fall as it would. 

Duncan stopped less than a yard from the older Immortal, katana held easily across his arms, watching the slender figure impassively, almost smiling when Methos draped his blade casually across one shoulder. 

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," MacLeod said. 

"I had a few obstacles to overcome," Methos said quietly. 

His dark hair was spiked with sweat, the long body had grown even leaner if it were possible, a distillation of the essentials--muscles, tendons, flesh, all of it condensed and compacted to the most efficient core. 

"I'm glad to see you, Mac," he murmured softly, onlookers excluded from hearing by the quiet tone, and some confused by the faint twitch at the corner of the tight lips. Methos took a step forward, bringing his sword down, the movement alone enough to summon up his exhaustion, and his relief at seeing the Highlander alive and he wavered. 

An advantage, most of the Immortals thought, watching grimly as MacLeod lunged forward. Most were surprised when the Highlander caught the faltering body rather than pressed his challenge. More surprised still when the older Immortal clung to the muscular frame like a lifeline, blade dropping to the ice as they embraced, dark heads pressed against opposite shoulders. 

Richie and Amanda stepped up, blades ready to challenge anyone who interfered with the reunion, falling into a guard stance when the Highlander caught the exhausted body around the waist before he collapsed...before anyone could take advantage...and guided him back to the campsite. Richie retrieved Methos' sword, backing away. The group effort earned some respect as the others turned to their own concerns. 

By tacit agreement, the few hours of real light which came were interrupted by no challenges, the remaining Immortals knowing how few of them would ever see the sun again before the last night was over. A handful were left. Methos had been the last to arrive. He leaned against the Highlander for a long moment before moving, sitting next to him as he recovered and greeted his companions warmly but wearily, sinking to the snow with no mind to the cold, though the slender body shivered. All of them rank and dirty--bodies alternately fatigued and energized by the rapid succession of battles and Quickenings. 

"I didn't expect it to be like this," Richie murmured. "I thought there would be only two--this isn't a gathering, it's a slaughter." 

"The strongest only, Rich," MacLeod said reaching out to grip the younger man's shoulder. "To drive the urge. The Quickenings call our blood until only one is left," he said, and silently prayed that he would not have to face one of these three beloved faces at the end. 

"I don't want this--no prize is worth this," Amanda moaned, wrapping her arms around her legs and rocking as the sun began to die again. MacLeod moved to sit behind her, drawing her into his arms for comfort, and they sat silently until the darkness came and the other woman approached--red-hair coppered by firelight, face once pretty but now hidden by battle lust and blood, dirt and weariness. 

"Come, sister. Our turn, I think," she murmured, her tone angry and clement at the same time. 

Amanda rose, kissing MacLeod quickly, deeply. And Richie. Then turned to Methos as he rose to his feet, his sword ready. She caught his chin, touched his cheek, caressing it with the back of her hand, then kissed him swiftly and followed her challenger to the bloodied circle. 

The three men followed, others rising to watch. There were nine of them left, including the two women. It was as if a signal had been given--the daughters of Eve to lead the last battle--the last fray. One challenger for each and one left over--to watch. 

It began like a dance. The Highlander, Methos, Armanda, and Richie, aligned side to side, with enough space to fight, facing off with four others--one at the head as if calling the steps. 

But there was no music--no laughter--no instruction. Just the ring of steel, cries of pain, curses for the slick ground. 

Methos' challenge fell first, then MacLeod's, the odd man out barely waiting as he came after the Scot as soon as the Quickening was over, not willing to take on Methos unbolstered by another's strength. 

And Amanda fell, body dropping at Methos' feet, and he waited for the other woman to recover, to breathe--allowing her time to assimilate Amanda's thousand plus years. It was the only grace he gave her as she rose. He engaged her as Richie's challenger dropped to the ground, the younger immortal sagging to the ice to await the outcome of the next to the last battle. 

Richie almost wished he'd lost the last fight, almost praying Duncan would lose so he wouldn't have to face him--but the bloodlust was rising as MacLeod dropped his challenger. The Gathering had pressed them full force, Quickenings dragging them resolutely to the finish. Richie got to his feet, hating the urge driving him, turning him toward MacLeod as the Highlander gave in to the Quickening. 

The woman Methos was fighting fell as well, and the oldest living Immortal almost dropped, but his eyes met Richie's. The red-head was flushed, eyes dilated as he watched MacLeod rise. The hazel eyes narrowed, softened, then he lunged, catching Richie in the abdomen, off guard. He heard MacLeod scream a protest behind him. The woman's Quickening was rising, reaching for Methos as he reached out to catch Richie's body. 

The blue eyes were normal but pain glazed, meeting Methos' with understanding, the bloodlust fading 

"I won't take his head," Methos breathed against the pale face. "He'll win." 

"Thank you," Richie murmured and Methos bent to kiss him gently, then twisted the sword as the Quickening touched him. He fought it, wrenching his blade free to take Richie's head, not dropping the body until the two Quickenings took him, almost simultaneously. He screamed, body convulsing under the onslaught, dragging the air from his lungs and driving his slender frame to the hard ground. 

He came to his senses to find MacLeod's blade at his throat. The Highlander let him move, get to his knees. The dark face was tortured, tears leaving pale tracks on the dirty skin. 

"Why? It was a coward's way to take him...you gave him no chance..." he snarled, the bloodlust falling against anger and grief. 

"No. I didn't. I gave him what I could. Did you really want to face him, Mac?" Methos asked wearily, his own insides warring. Pick up the sword. Pick up the sword. It droned in his mind and he fought it with every bit of willpower five thousand years could give him. "To kill him? He couldn't have taken either of us. I didn't want him to die at your hand," he said softly. 

MacLeod stared, chest heaving with rage, suppressed sobs, and then he gave into them, dropping to his knees with an animal cry of grief and rage and loss. Methos reached for him, pushing the blade aside to gather the larger man into his arms. He ached. He was weary beyond belief, and none of it mattered as he soothed his Highland warrior, smoothing the dark hair, holding him close and closing his eyes against his own tears as they clung together. 

It was a respite, Methos knew. The bloodlust would come again, for both of them--driving out all other emotions except the desire to win. He thought he would be able to resist longer than MacLeod, but not forever. He waited, listened, and prayed a promise made long ago would be kept. 

*Yes.* 

It was a whisper of thought, familiar and alien, gentle and terrifying. 

*Now?* it asked, hopeful, ready. 

*No. Not yet. Let us come to our own time,* Methos answered, suffused with relief. 

*As you will, brother. We are close.* 

The voice faded as Methos continued to rock MacLeod. 

"I can't do this," The Highlander moaned. "I can't fight it--I don't want the prize." 

"It's yours, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I've known it--prayed for it," Methos murmured against his hair, feeling the tight muscles under his hands, the body he loved containing the spirit he worshipped. 

"Take my head, Methos. Please. End this." 

"I can't and I will. In time, Duncan. Rest. Hush. It will be over soon," Methos soothed, brushing his thumb across the dry lips and then bending to kiss him, meeting the desperate response with passion and sorrow and love. 

Their bodies were hard and straining but it was not gentle caresses or rough lovemaking which would cull the urge. The bloodlust was rising and they dared deny it until MacLeod shook under the force of it, wrenching himself away, fingers closing over his blade. Methos moved as well, away, his own fingers twitching for his steel and he resisted. But his blood was burning, the heady lure of power hovering just beyond his reach. He could taste it--the Quickening in the Highlander--his own. A temptation--too much too bear, to resist. 

*Now!* the oldest Immortal cried. 

Shadows swooped in around them, Lestat and Armand, Louis and David and Khayman. Armand caught MacLeod, and Khayman helped--the Highlander was strong from his many Quickenings, power arching around them, waiting for one to claim it. Although one vampire could easily have restrained him, two made certain he would be restrained without having to be harmed. 

Methos reached for his sword, eyes narrowed. 

"This is how you win, Methos? To cheat with your pet monsters?" 

The hazel eyes froze, saw the blade and dropped it in horror. "No. No, MacLeod. This is how you win," he said softly, body shaking as he tried to over come the rage and bloodlust for a few seconds more. 

"Please, Lestat. I can't..." he begged, reaching for the vampire in desperation. 

"I know, mon cher...." Lestat said gently and caught Methos' face in his hands, tasted the lips gently, and then turned his head, exposing the long, slender throat. Methos jerked, catching the vampire's wrists, body arching in pain, and then in something else. 

Lestat drank quickly, bearing up the slender body, holding it as he took it down to near death, to where the heart was but a murmur. Louis came forward to help cradle the body of their friend, holding him up as his legs went slack and his eyes closed. 

Dying, Methos' presence no longer called to MacLeod, but Armand and Khayman held him still as the rage turned to sorrow. 

"What is happening?" he murmured. 

"He is giving you the prize--he is giving you his life and saving your soul," Armand said. "Remember this MacLeod, watch him--he is ensuring you will never be alone." 

MacLeod didn't understand until he saw all three go to their knees, still cradling the lax body as Lestat opened his shirt and dragged his fingernail across his throat, then lifted the limp head and pressed the mouth to the bloody wound. 

"No. No. No! Nonononono!" MacLeod screamed as he realized what Methos had agreed to, what he had planned: to cross over--to surrender his humanity to keep MacLeod alive--to give him the Prize. To protect him from the grief of having to kill the last friend he had. 

The vampires would not let him go, not even when he went to his knees as Methos began to stir, to suckle the damning blood Lestat offered him. They held him as Lestat swooned, body trembling with the ecstasy only one vampire--or one newly made--could give to another. 

"Yes, that's it! Drink, mon cher! Drink and be strong. Be strong enough to overcome your own Immortality!" Lestat urged as Methos sucked harder and more insistently. 

The world slowed to a near stop as MacLeod watched in horror. Before him his friend and lover was making the greatest sacrifice he could, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He heard the sounds of Methos' drinking, unable to block them out, and his soul froze inside him as Lestat sank down to the ground, Methos' mouth still fused to his neck. 

"Enough," Louis whispered, after moments untold, and gently separated the two. 

Lestat let out a mournful sigh and stayed collapsed on the ground, David leaning worriedly over him, as Louis took charge of Methos--waiting as the change came, as Methos surrendered, burned, body convulsing as he gave into the blood, the curse. MacLeod moaned as he felt the energies stir, move, crackle through the air--a glowing mist rising from Methos' body as he died--human spirit quenched, not with a head taking but with another death. The energy arced, sought and found a home, and the vampires moved then, away from MacLeod as the Quickening came: the last Quickening as only one stood alone, and he slumped to the ground, sobbing as the mirror of his heart was cast back at him. 

Five thousand years. Millennia surrendered without regret to the one thing which had sustained them both. Love. It crashed down on the Highlander, swirling around him and lifting him like an offering to the heavens. He could feel the lives Methos had harbored for so long, each one a face and form, a marker of history. 

The most recent came last, Amanda, Richie, a touch, a grin, a caress, a murmur of forgiveness, of gratitude that they would not be forgotten...ever. And then Methos, his presence so powerful MacLeod lost himself in it, a thousand memories of anger and betrayal, humor and concern, pain and ecstasy--the feel of skin, a mouth on his with a kiss, a benediction--a promise and then it was gone as well. 

And the Prize came. The rush of power, life, as MacLeod became aware of all things at once, tumbling inside him like puzzle pieces to be sorted--answers to things he had never questioned, questions demanding answers, an orgasm of knowledge, of power, extending from all living things to find a home in his breast and body, in his mind and soul. The ability to change things, to mend them and the knowledge and conscience to use the power wisely. Not a God, but god-like. Not a man, but human. 

And one wrenching sense of loss. 

The energies released him, setting him down gently, cradling his unmoving body as the winds stilled and settled at last, the energies draining back into the earth--back to life. 

The vampires moved back warily, cautiously, having shielded themselves from the light--from the caress of those lightnings for they had felt them too. Something like a promise invading their darkness. 

Lestat was regaining his strength, and he raised himself up to look at the two silent forms, one flushed with a life-force so full it was painful to be near, and he realized he would never again challenge...or survive a challenge...put to the proud Highland warrior. Then Khayman came to him, good old Khayman with his loving heart and giving nature. The ancient vampire held him close and allowed him to feed--offering him sustenance, and he took it gratefully but his blue-gray eyes were fixed on the slender, still form Louis tended. Methos had always been pale, but the vampiric transfusion had left him translucent, frail looking though his body had not yet succumbed to the changes that were to follow. 

"He will need to feed..." Armand said as Louis gathered the slight form up in his arms--Methos weighed no more than a child, as if surrendering his humanity had lifted a burden the body could no longer sustain. 

"The sun will come soon," David said softly, reaching out to touch the dark silken hair. "We should take him." 

"No." 

Khayman turned at the voice to see MacLeod rise, still filthy, battered, but the dark eyes shone with strength, and he moved...graceful MacLeod had always been, and swift....and now he was like the wind, a river, moving in the world as one who truly is part of it. 

"You agreed to this," MacLeod said to Lestat. 

"I did. A promise to be kept, Highlander. If he survived to the end and you did as well, he would not leave you to face this world alone--and he could not kill you and face it alone himself. Had you not have survived, he might have, but there was no prize worth your death." 

"So you gave him yours," MacLeod said softly. 

"Out of love," Louis explained gently. "He bridged our world, MacLeod as he bridged yours. We are not monsters to him--weren't. Now he is our kin and your companion for as long as you will have him." 

"But not human." 

"No. He will need to feed when he wakes. It will be soon. If he does not, the hunger will make him mad...." Khayman said as Duncan nodded, and held out his arms to take Methos from Louis. 

"The sun rises, MacLeod," Lestat warned. 

"I know. I can hear it," MacLeod said, gathering the beloved body into his embrace, curling the two of them together on the frozen ground in a tangle of trembling limbs. 

Methos stirred, whimpered, face paling in pain and need, sharp canines showing through the parted lips. 

"Ah, love. What have you done?" MacLeod murmured as he glanced up at Lestat for a moment, then extended his wrist to him. 

"I will feed him." 

"He will drain you dry if you let him," the blond vampire warned. 

"He won't," MacLeod insisted. 

"As you wish then," Lestat answered as he slashed open a vein in the Highlander's dusky skin.; watching as the Highlander then pressed the bloody wound against the mouth of his lover, his friend--his brother. 

"The sun..." David warned. 

"Go," MacLeod ordered, feeling the pull of Methos' mouth on his skin. 

"He'll die...he'll burn...." Khayman warned. 

"Go." 

"Would you let him die rather than accept this gift?" Louis demanded. 

MacLeod met his eyes, green and brown clashing and Louis stepped back. "You can't undo this...." 

"You have no idea what I can do," MacLeod murmured and hissed as Methos woke further, suckling turned greedy and savage. "Hush, Methos. Take your time..." he soothed and the savagery faded as the hazel eyes opened to brown ones. 

"We have to go..." Armand said, picking up David as Lestat took Louis, and they sought shelter from the light of day. 

Khayman stayed behind, looking anxious and concerned. "Let us take him, MacLeod. He'll die with the first kiss of the sun." 

"No," Methos whispered hoarsely. "I want to stay." 

"Methos..." Khayman began. "You will die." 

"Then I die..." came Methos' soft response as MacLeod drew him closer. "If he can't live with me as I am, I have nothing to live for...Go on...old one. I am where I am supposed to be for whatever happens..." 

Khayman nodded and withdrew, leaving the two alone. 

Methos' hunger had eased--not abated, but enough so he could see through the red fog, control the driving need to feed. He leaned back against MacLeod's arm, cold fingers gripping the wound. 

"You abhor this...what I've become..." he said softly and MacLeod started, realizing he felt as well as heard the words. He smiled, not sure how to use this power he'd been given. 

"No, Methos....I know what you've done and why. I don't agree, but it was...clever. Impossible. Something only you could dream up," he said and bent his head to kiss him, parting the soft, cold mouth, tasting his own blood, the raised canines, coaxing the moist sweetness he had come to savor. It was slightly different, spicier, and Methos returned the kiss, probing the familiar mouth with his tongue, careful of his sharpened teeth. He clung to Duncan, aware of the lightening sky, not afraid--if he died with this kiss on his mouth it would be enough--to be forgiven for his foolishness, his desperation. His cowardice. 

"I have no intention of letting you die," MacLeod said and lifted his wrist again. "Finish, and we'll see what dawn brings." 

"Mac..." Methos said and lifted his head. "I want..." 

"Hedonist," MacLeod said chuckling and pulled him upward, cradling him in his arms as supporting the beloved head as he pushed his hair back to expose his throat. Instinctively, Methos' mouth sought out the throbbing vein and sunk his newly elongated teeth into it. The puncture was gentle, and the Highlander sighed, body tensing in pleasure. Methos was inexpert at what a vampire could do, having only been on the receiving end before, but he knew what he wanted MacLeod to feel, moaning himself at the taste of the Highlander's blood, the feel of the strong, warm hands against his cold skin, under his clothes at his back, the firm caress across his groin. 

And he drank, gaining strength and confused when MacLeod seemed to feel no loss. The first kiss of sunlight touched his skin, warming it and he lifted his mouth to MacLeod's, wanting that human touch to be the last thing he felt if this were the end. MacLeod caught his fingers and held him, supported him, kissed him with passion enough for eternity. 

His cheek felt hot and for a brief moment he was afraid. 

"Don't be....look at it, Methos," MacLeod said turning him in his arms to face the rising sun, arms secure around his waist, chest hard and strong against Methos' back. Iceland's cold bothered them not at all as they watched the silver orb rise, MacLeod's lips in his hair. 

"Don't be afraid..." MacLeod said again as the vampiric cold left Methos' body for heat--the sun, the air, MacLeod's body against his. The light hurt his eyes and he closed them. His breath quickened and he moistened his lips then stopped, feeling his teeth. 

They were flat. The blood hunger was gone as well. He lifted his hand, saw the flush in his skin and not from the sunrise, not from the sated coursing of a vampire but because his blood was warm--human. 

"What did you do?" he murmured. "The Prize..." 

"No Miracles, Methos. Just the ability to change, to put things as they were meant to be," MacLeod said, hugging him. "My blood, your blood. It's all the same. It always was. I can't do this alone, Methos. You knew that before you knew what this was. That's what gave me the idea--to make it right. To make us right. Death is a thought away. Life a heartbeat. We're still Immortal, both of us, and the Game will begin again, but we won't be part of it unless we choose to be--and the rules are a little different. Reach out for it, Methos...the whole world is there...a dozen new loves, maybe children. And us." 

"You've made me like you are." 

"Everyone is like I am, they just don't know how to use what they are. We get to teach them--even your little fan club of bloodsuckers. What were you thinking?" MacLeod asked gently, turning him. 

"Don't you know?" Methos asked, aware he could hear thoughts as a murmur, including MacLeod's, but only if he tried. 

"If I tried--I don't want to be omniscient, Methos." 

"I was thinking I had been alone most of my life and hated it--survived it. I didn't want you to have to survive the loneliness. I wanted you to have someone to turn to until you knew what this was." Methos said, sliding his hands along the strong jaw, into the satin hair, ignoring the dirt, the grime and dried blood. 

The bodies scattered on the ice. 

"I'm sorry about Richie, about..." Methos began. Duncan stopped his regrets with a kiss. 

"Don't be--we have them still and they're waiting--maybe this life, maybe the next. They have lots of time..." MacLeod said, shifting and rising, drawing Methos up with him to face the short lived dawn. "I am tired and hungry and cold. Hike to the next town or wait for your fan club?" 

Methos grinned and caught MacLeod around the waist. "Oh, yeah, I forgot...there's this little trick I learned from Lestat..." 

"No way, Methos...." MacLeod began. 

Methos shook his head smugly and led him beyond the killing fields to a rock outcropping, setting him down to pull back a white tarp. A sleek snowmobile waited. 

MacLeod burst out laughing. 

Methos grinned. "Leave nothing to chance." 

"Always be prepared--and you call me a boy scout!" 

Methos caught his hands. "No. I have an entirely different name for you..." he said softly and murmured it into MacLeod's ear, then took his life--their life to face a new world. 

* * *

\--Just the Beginnning--

**Author's Note:**

> *The author of the story that inspired this one (Isilwath) greatly inspired me in Highlander fandom. She wrote the precursor to this story, which I'm not sure is even available any longer, but it was awesome and wonderful - she had an awesome style, a gift for dialogue and a way of getting inside the head of characters that I admire to this day. And she was kind enough to let me play a little at the time with her work, and later gave me permission to repost it on my website along with other work of hers. Sometime around 2005-2006 my website got overrun by a nasty bit of malware and pretty much everything on it was lost - including some of the only copies of some of my early work as well as the works of several other authors.
> 
> Unfortunately the inspiration for her original story kind of took a the long walk off the short pier regarding salutory fanworks; the result of which was that ton of excellent fic was lost or buried so deep even the Wayback machine may not have it. That said I'm reposting this in my great consolidation effort of 2014. This isn't in defiance (necessarily ) of the original non-fan authors dictate, but this is primarily a Highlander story. And really, I'm less of a fan of the original author's work than I am of Isilwath's -- but I did, indeed, buy most of the IWAV series to show my support for the original author. Fans tend to do that.


End file.
